There is a reason
by Poke-it-with-a-Stick
Summary: Zaphod wants to get drunk. Trillian wants to find the Ultimate Question. Ford wants to go somewhere where his life will not be in thirteen different types of danger at the same time. And Arthur... well, Arthur just wants tea. *ON HIATUS*
1. It begins

**And so enters the first chapter of my attempted Hitchhikers' Guide fic. I'm trying to write in the style of Douglas Adams. Am I doing well? **

**I don't actually know where this story's going (whisper: I'mmakingitupasIgoalong)… but I hope people enjoy it and find it funny as I struggle helplessly to find an actual plot. **

_Chapter 1 _

_In which the main characters grapple with important questions of Life, the Universe, and Everything _

'Look,' said Zaphod, as calmly as he could. 'All I want to do is go to a bar somewhere very hot and hideously expensive, get pissed out of both brains and wake up tomorrow morning in someone else's bed with the worst double hangover in the history of the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. Do you have a problem with that?'

'YES!' yelled Arthur and Trillian.

'NO!' yelled Ford, just as loudly.

'Zaphod,' reasoned Trillian, thinking that it was rather a shame to argue with him when he had actually made up his mind about something for once. 'We're still supposed to be finding the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, aren't we?'

'Yeeees…' said Zaphod warily.

'Therefore, wouldn't it be a good idea to actually try and find it, instead of jetting off to some exotic holiday planet to get drunk?'

'Look,' Zaphod replied, with a bizarre piece of logic that surprised even him. 'Seeing as we don't even know where we're supposed to be looking anyway, and the chances of actually ending up anywhere we need to be are infinitesimally minute, wouldn't it be better to abandon any rational system of choosing where to look and just get the hell out of here? I don't know about you, but I'd rather end up not finding the Question somewhere where you can get a good drink rather than somewhere you can't.'

Everyone stared at him. This was, depending on which way you looked at it, either a remarkably bold experiment in hypermathematics and fundamental deduction, or complete and utter lunacy. Trillian was inclined to go for the latter option, or she would have done if she could have got a word in edgeways between Zaphod's increasingly incomprehensible monologue. 'You see,' he was now explaining, 'if you truly believe in the basic unified theory of Stroyabulous Seven of Arkafia Minor, then--'

'You're making all this up as you go along, aren't you?' interrupted Trillian. 'Well, like I said, if you believe in the basic unified theory of Stroyabulous Seven of Arkafia Minor, then all this does actually have some relevance to the conversation, and I am not just concocting a ridiculously involved excuse for going to a party.'

'You're making it up.'

'Yes, but there are plenty of _good_ reasons why we should be getting pissed somewhere very sunny.'

'Name one.'

'Well, what really is the point of trying to find the Question at all? After all, it could be absolutely anything. It could even be more than one question. I mean, look at us.' Here Zaphod swung his arm round in a pointlessly extravagant gesture that seemed to be intended to encompass Arthur, the central control monitor, the entire star system of Stamgillia Eleven, and an air conditioning unit.

Trillian looked. After a few minutes of waiting for Zaphod to elaborate, she was forced to ask him what exactly he had meant by his last remark. 'We all see the universe differently,' he explained when he'd actually remembered what it was they had been talking about. 'We all think different things are important. If I asked everybody in this room what they think the Ultimate Question should be, they'd all come out with completely different answers. Hey, guys!'

Ford and Arthur looked up from where they'd been trying to gag Eddie, the permanently happy shipboard computer. It wasn't helping either their job or their sanity to have Marvin helping them. Ford was ignoring him, Arthur was attempting to reason with him, and Eddie was making a valiant attempt to speak through five layers of cyber-synthetic neuro-fabric and cheer him up.

'Guys,' continued Zaphod. 'What do you think the Ultimate Question is?'

'Why do we keep getting ourselves into ludicrously dangerous situations while trying to _find_ the bloody thing?' snarled Ford as he tried to find the key that controlled the computer's speech mode.

'Why are we bothering to talk about this?' contributed Trillian.

'Where's the tea?' wailed Arthur, who hadn't been listening to a word Zaphod had said for the past half hour.

'See?' grinned Zaphod, with the air of one who has just proved his point beyond any reasonable doubt. As everyone stared confusedly at him, trying to work out whether they simply hadn't understood his last remark, or if he was just talking complete and utter garbage, he leapt across to the central console and hit the teleportation key with a crazy of whoop of 'Excitement and adventure and really wild things!'

**Reviews will be loved. **


	2. Of purple floors and ventilation systems

**Yes... chapter two. Wow… Chapter three is already nagging at me to write it. No:kicks plotbunny away: I shall resist! Swearing in this chapter, mainly because I find it funny, oh, and this random thing that everyone seems to put at the top of their fanfics: **

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. They're too awesome; no way could I create them… :sobs: **

_Chapter 2 _

_In which the main characters attempt to work out where the hell they are, and get into an argument with a ventilation system. _

"Zaphod…" groaned Ford. "You forgot to set the controls on the teleportation system. Again."

Trillian swayed slowly to her feet, leaning at a 45° angle and trying not to be very very angry indeed with Zaphod. She counted to ten, and was still very angry at him. She then attempted to count to twenty, and promptly collapsed as her brain proved unable to cope with the combined effects of unexpected matter transference halfway across the galaxy, the most basic maths in existence, extreme irritation at the two-headed maniac who had just transported them the aforementioned distance through hyperspace, and standing up. She closed her eyes and resumed counting.

Arthur opened his eyes to discover that the world they had arrived at seemed to be almost wholly composed of a particularly violent shade of the colour purple. There was also rather a lot of shouting going on somewhere, which he decided to ignore for now, for the simple reason that when your head feels like someone has just attempted to play rugby with it, a thorough and informed exploration of your immediate environment is hardly likely to be top of your list of priorities.

As Arthur focused more closely on the particularly violent shade of purple, he realised that the reason why the whole world appeared to be a uniform hue of mauve was that he was lying on the floor with his face pressed into the linoleum. _Wait… _he thought. _Linoleum? _But linoleum indeed it was, cool, slightly curled at the edges, and the sort of colour that sends interior designers into apoplectic fits. "Ford…" he groaned. "Where the hell are we?"

Ford, who was leaning against a bizarrely curved control panel a few metres away and pressing buttons on the Guide, looked up. "Well…" he began, looked swiftly back down again at an electronic bleep from his device, swore loudly, pressed a few more buttons, thumped the side of the screen in an effort to make it work, and finally threw the whole thing across the room. "Well…" he repeated.

"Yes?" asked Arthur, eager to get to the point.

"When I checked the Guide, it said we were in the second branch of the star system Gabhimilious Minor at the top left hand corner of the galaxy, and that the local lobster was excellent. However, when I programmed in our current surroundings—" Here he broke off to wave a hand vaguely about the room. "— it replicated the article about the lobster, and told me that the best course of action would be to think happy thoughts, and not bode too much on the impending destruction of all sentient lifeforms. Then I got an error message."

"Impending destruction" mused Arthur. "That doesn't sound good".

"Nah, it's just the Guide malfunctioning again. Bloody book."

"Think they have any tea around here?"

In the opposite corner, an argument between Trillian and Zaphod had been raging for the past quarter of an hour. It had started with Trillian berating her erstwhile travelling companion for landing them on a ship that seemed to consist solely of one long stretch of purple, and continued through various interesting subjects such as Zaphod's attitude to responsibility as a whole, how he'd become President of the Galaxy in the first place, an comprehensive list of reasons as to why he was completely unsuited for the role, and a final invitation to explain himself, fully, inclusively, and in words of less than one syllable. Zaphod was now in the middle of a spirited defence of his motives, principles, and general drinking habits, which was an impressively wide range of sub-topics all in itself.

"Yes, _but_," interrupted Trillian halfway through a lecture on the relevance of the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster to everyday life and ethics, which she suspected Zaphod was quoting straight from the Guide, "_Where the hell are we? _"

"Nowhere with any tea available, I can tell you that," answered Arthur, emerging from the one of the darker recesses of the room.

"It seems to be some sort of control room," said Ford, a little more helpfully. "Like the bridge on the Heart of Gold, only the screens aren't showing anything but weird green symbols. We found a speaker too, but the Babel fish can't translate whatever's coming out of it. It sounds like a chicken trying to cough up rocks".

"Great" said Trillian, slumping glumly to the ground. "Now we're _really_ screwed".

"Wait!" yelled Arthur, who had moved off again on his never-ending quest for tea. I've found something else!" Trillian remained where she was, stabbing moodily at the buttons of the Guide. "Look! Ford, what is it?"

"Uh…" Ford sounded less than enthused. "It appears to be a ventilation system".

There was a whir, a click and a metallic hum. The sound like a chicken trying to cough up rocks ceased, and was replaced by a deep, robotic voice. "I _am_ a ventilation system". Arthur gasped. Ford sighed. Trillian got up and wandered over. Zaphod remained where he was: standing on the other side of the room repeatedly beating his left head against the wall.

"Er…" said Ford, and then said it again, for want of anything else to say. "Er… right". The room fell silent.

"Ford…" whispered Arthur. "Did that ventilation system just speak to us?"

"I think so…"

"Of course it did" snapped Trillian. "I heard it!"

"The Earth woman is right," boomed the ventilation system.

Arthur passed out from sheer surprise. "Oh, _brilliant,_" muttered Ford sarcastically, and attempted to address the ventilation system. "Where are we?"

"Well," it replied, "That all depends on whether you mean 'Where are we?' in the sense of occupying a particular location on the spatial plane, or whether you mean 'Where are we?' in the sense of expressing a desire to understand your purpose in the universe and your associated place within the social structures of—"

"SHUT UP!" The ventilation system fell silent again.

"Of all the possible ventilation systems we could have got stuck in a completely unidentifiable purple ship with a faulty copy of the Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy and a speaker playing a sound so bizarre that even the Babel fish can't translate it as anything other than a chicken trying to cough up rocks with, we have to get a philosophical one". Ford kicked the wall in frustration and turned back to the aforementioned device for a second try at rational conversation.

"Just tell me where the hell this ship _is_! And why it's so purple…"

"Well, that all depends on how you choose to define the term 'purple', in the existential sense rather than the…"

Ford kicked it again and gave up.

"So," said Trillian, a few hours later. "Anyone come up with any bright ideas about getting the hell out of here yet?" She looked round. Ford and Zaphod were engaged in an intense staring competition, which appeared to have been going on for the past half hour. Arthur was slumped against Ford's shoulder, dead to the world, and Marvin lay by the undecipherable monitor, counting every single particle of dust spinning lazily through the air of the room. He had performed this exercise three times already, and he'd only started it half a nanosecond ago. Trillian sighed heavily, decided that Arthur had the right idea, and, leaning against Zaphod, prepared to go to sleep. It was at this moment that the chicken-coughing-up-rocks sound ceased again, and an instantly translated, but otherwise totally alien voice billowed out of the speakers.

"Good evening, this is Captain Jeptzain Hooruly of the Imarwanien Official Scout Force. I have just received information that we have four intruders aboard our ship". He paused. "Sorry, make that four intruders and a suicidally depressed robot. Anyway, as I speak a small team of our best-trained destruction staff are making their way to them, and they should be dispatched with within minutes". Another pause, as Trillian listened, Arthur slumbered, and Ford and Zaphod continued to stare unblinkingly, giving no indication that they'd heard anything at all. A sudden burst of pop music exploded from the speakers, and an almost offensively cheerful jingle apparently promoting 'A better lifestyle on Verjoglen Beta' played for a couple of seconds, before the Captain concluded "Have a nice day!"

There was a loud thump at the wall that Zaphod was slouching against, and the spell broke. Everyone except Arthur jumped to their feet, screaming an interesting range of shocked expletives.

"Shit!"

"Zarking—"

"Bloody hell!"

"Mgfumphwumph?"

"Arthur, wake up!"

"Whuh?"

"There appear," said Ford, with an air of great calm, "to be a bunch of unknown and potentially lethal maniacs, with weaponry heavy enough to buckle the wall-" here he ducked as a large portion of purple metal caved in towards him "-and intent to kill us about to enter this room in less than five seconds, and _we need to get out of the way! _"

"Oh," muttered Arthur. "Well, business as usual then," and promptly went back to sleep, waking again a second later to scream "WHAT?!?"

"Exactly," said Ford grimly. "Now, hide!" He shoved Arthur behind the large monitor, looked around for another hiding place, selected a flimsy section of walling as having potential, ripped it off, and crammed himself into the cramped hollow behind it, holding the panel in front of him as close to the wall as possible. These manoeuvres took him precisely three seconds, Ford being no stranger to speedy concealment in a risky situation.

Behind the monitor, Zaphod swore, Arthur prayed, and Trillian held her breath. Inside the wall cavity, Ford closed his eyes and vowed never to get on a ship with his cousin again. Dust fell. Alien weaponry thumped. And then came a final, ear-splitting crash.

**:kicks third chapter plotbunny repeatedly: No! Go away! Ahem… I'm trying to write this in the style of Douglas Adams. Am I doing well? Reviewers will be loved; criticism is welcomed. Just be polite, or no cookies. **

**- **


	3. Of advertising and robots

**Yeah… apologies for the huge wait since the last update. I ignored the plotbunny for so long that it died. Luckily I actually have some idea of where the plot's going now, so I'll be able to update much quicker. Thank you to everyone who commented! **

_Chapter 3 _

_In which a Verjoglen advertising agency is destroyed, and Marvin turns out to be useful for something after all (sort of). _

Ford tried not to breathe. Although his vision through the panelling was very limited, he could just about see the 'destruction staff' silhouetted against the harsh light from the corridor outside. His nose twitched. The cramped wall space was incredibly dusty, and sooner or later, he was going to—

In a stroke of irony beloved to writers the galaxy over, Ford sneezed.

Behind the monitor, Arthur, Zaphod, and Trillian all winced. The universe seemed to pause for a second, as if attempting to decide exactly how badly it was going to screw up their lives this time, and then the first Imarwanien stepped through the gap, heading towards Ford's hiding place.

Ford tensed inside his cavity. If he could just get past this guy, then he should be able to make a run for it. As long as Arthur didn't do anything particularly stupid, he might even escape with his life. Footsteps echoed across the floor. Three… two… one…

"It was me," said Arthur, stepping out from behind the monitor.

Ford viciously cursed whatever blighted Earth sense of chivalry had just induced his friend to doom them all. If he'd just stayed quiet, they might have been able to escape, or even—God forbid—rescue him. Shit, shit, _shit_.

The Imarwanien turned, obviously torn between yanking Ford out of the panelling, or going for the easy target Arthur presented, exposed in the middle of the (violently purple) room. Then he headed for the Earthman, who stood there, in a manner faintly reminiscent of a stuffed chicken, uttering odd stuttering noises and twitching from side to side. Ford sighed and closed his eyes for a brief second…

All hell broke loose. At the same moment that Ford exploded from his hiding place, Trillian and Zaphod sprang out from behind the screen, Zaphod brandishing a powerful-looking laser pistol that Ford was sure he hadn't had thirty seconds ago. "All right!" he yelled, managing to level the gun directly at the leader of the Imarwanien party before his heroic streak gave out. "… Do you have any alcohol?" Trillian sighed and propped herself against the monitor.

The Imarwanien leader looked stunned for a moment, but quickly recovered his composure. "We have not come to negotiate, Beeblebrox. You will die. And you will die now."

It was Zaphod's turn to look completely staggered. "How do you know my name?"

There was a sharp bleep, and a voice that the companions recognised as that of the captain echoed through the room. "Corporal! Your orders were to exterminate the intruders, not have a cosy chat with them! Get on with the job!"

The corporal coughed, the portions of his skin that could be seen around his armour turning a dull red with embarrassment. "… As I was saying, Beeblebrox, you and your sorry friends will meet your end here! Face the might of Imarwania!"

Ford cursed quietly. Arthur, who had been following this exchange intently, stumbled back, looking terrified. Zaphod juggled the pistol from hand to hand, apparently contemplating bluffing it out. The Imarwaniens raised their guns, all of which looked like a cross between a small nuclear reactor and one of the more exotic species of sea cucumber, and opened fire.

Bolts of purple lightning exploded around the group as they dived for cover. Ford felt his hair singe, and Trillian's shoe partially melted. No-one wanted to contemplate the consequences of a direct hit. Zaphod paused in ducking behind a large bank of instruments, and whistled appreciatively. A large portion of the ceiling exploded and crashed to the floor; molten metal running off it to form small, superheated purple pools. Arthur cringed.

The edges of the control panel Trillian and Ford were hiding behind was beginning to fizz and crackle. Electricity jolted from a frazzled socket as miniature fires caught hold on the lino. They peered back into the recesses of the room, desperately searching for a way out.

The room tipped sideways as everything went black.

The ship fell through the infinite blackness of space, accompanied by the scream of tortured metal and the crackle of flames rapidly consuming the room. Purple bolts flashed wildly overhead as the Imarwaniens dropped their weapons and attempted to flee. Trillian screamed. And then the entire universe exploded.

Arthur woke, once again, on the floor. Despite what felt like an unpleasant mixture of the worst hangover ever and a nasty encounter with a Vogon sonnet, he was relieved to find that it was not purple. In fact, as he discovered when he finally managed to stand up, it appeared to be the floor of the bridge on the Heart of Gold. Also lying around in various stages of extreme agony and trauma were Zaphod, Trillian, Ford, and, slumped dejectedly in the corner with his eyes glowing faintly, Marvin.

Ford struggled to his feet. "Anyone know what the hell just happened?" he moaned.

"Not a clue," admitted Zaphod, swaying slightly.

For want of anything more constructive to do, Arthur pulled out his copy of the Guide and searched for 'Imerwanian'. After going through 'Imarwanian', 'Inarrainien' and 'Imarjustbloodywork', he found the correct entry; eight dense lines of writing crammed between 'Basic Metaphysics' (1011 words), and 'Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster hangover cures' (9583 words). This is what they said:

_The Imarwaniens are a largely peaceful race of lifestyle consultants and advertising agents from the planet system of Verjoglen. Conversely, their Official Scout Force is notorious for its violence and xenophobia, and holds deep grudges against anyone who escapes their heavily-armed 'destruction staff'. Recently, however, a large spaceship evaded the scouts and succeeded in destroying the Star Federation, the main advertising agency of Verjoglen Beta—_

Arthur didn't bother reading any further. He had already put two and two together, and the fact that he had come up with the highly unusual answer of 6.9723 only served to make him more uneasy. "Guys!" he yelled. "I really need to know what just happened _right now_!"

"I think we teleported somewhere," answered Ford. "That's about the only explanation I can come up with for my head feeling the way it currently does."

"But where from?" asked Arthur frantically. "Surely someone must know?"

From the darkest, dustiest corner of the bridge, Marvin replied.

"How surprisingly perceptive, Earthman. The planet we just left was indeed Verjoglen Beta."

"But what happened? How did we teleport out? And why?"

"I found the ship's main neural network."

"So… _you_ destroyed the advertising agency?"

Marvin uttered a sound suspiciously close to that of a reproachful sniff. "I did no such thing. I merely induced the network to teleport us back to the Heart of Gold. The explosion that caused the incident was an emergency procedure reserved for invasion by particularly malignant viruses."

"Marvin…"

"I believe it was a side-effect of my attempt to engage it in conversation."

Up till that point, Arthur hadn't thought it was possible for a synthesised voice to ever sound quite that depressed.

**I like reviews. They taste good on toast. **


	4. Alcohol and plutonium

**Thanks for all your comments! I'm currently questing a better title… **

_Chapter 4 _

_Alcohol and plutonium _

"Well, that's just great," said Ford, taking the Guide from Arthur. "The entire Imarwanien Official Scout Force is out to get us. Just what we needed."

Trillian sighed. "Weren't we supposed to be finding the Ultimate Question?"

Zaphod attempted to run a hand through his hair, realised he was still holding the laser pistol in his hand, and stowed it carefully in his pocket. He flopped onto a control panel. Immediately a burst of sound echoed through the bridge: "... capture and kill Beeblebrox and his sorry companions!"

Trillian reached over and switched the radio off. There was a long silence.

"So…" said Ford eventually, picking up a nearby piece of paper. "Anyone got a pen?"

"What are you doing?"

"Making a 'to do' list. Item number one. Avoid painful death at the hands of the Imarwaniens. Item number two. Find Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything. Item number three—"

"Alcohol," interrupted Zaphod. "Find some alcohol."

"Item number three, find some alcohol."

"Sorry, but exactly what does this achieve?" asked Trillian.

"It allows us to prioritise," said Ford solemnly.

"Alcohol is priority number one, obviously. Alcohol, open brackets, Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, close brackets," added Zaphod.

"Zaphod…"

Zaphod stood shakily, and tapped a few buttons on the console. A screen flickered into life before them, accompanied by a cheerful mumbling sound that appeared to be coming from the speakers. Trillian cautiously peeled back a layer of cyber-synthetic neuro-fabric.

"Ooee ay, ar ee i uhool is ime!"

Everyone in the room exchanged suspicious glances. Trillian pulled away another layer. And another. By the time the fourth layer was off, Eddie's voice could be heard quite clearly.

"Woo-ee, guys, are we in trouble this time!"

"Hello, Eddie."

"Hello, Mr Beeblebrox, and may I say what an honour it is to hear—"

"Eddie, by 'trouble', did you mean 'extremely malignant and heavily armed xenophobic scouts lusting for our blood?"

"Actually, Mr Beeblebrox, I meant the large meteor of plutonium currently travelling towards this ship at approximately 300 miles per hour on a trajectory of—"

"Shit!"

Arthur raced to the window and peered out. The meteor rocketed towards the ship, glowing white-hot from its incredible speed. The precise meaning of the phrase 'terminal velocity' suddenly came home to him, very hard indeed.

At times like these, when the only thing standing between a huge chunk of super-charged plutonium and certain death is the suddenly flimsy-looking plasma shield of a ship that was, after all, built only for politics, people tend to take stock of their life. Sometimes they wish they had been better. Often they wish they had been worse.

Arthur wished there had been more tea.

"Fifteen seconds till impact!" chirped Eddie. Even the prospect of severely impending death could not change his relentlessly cheerful tone.

Zaphod thumped a control panel wildly. The lights flickered on and off, a loud clap of pop music deafened everyone momentarily, the entire back wall of the bridge turned into a cinema, complete with 360˚ sound system, and showing, oddly enough, _The Great Escape_, but the Heart of Gold obstinately refused to move.

"Ten seconds till impact!" chirped Eddie. Arthur noticed, abstractedly, that the side of the meteor closest to him was covered in intricately carved letters, picked out in lines of fire: A Present From Imarwania.

"Five seconds till impact!"

Ford swore. Zaphod's brow creased in thought. "Eddie!" he called.

"Four… three… yes, Mr Beeblebrox, sir?"

"Eddie—"

"Two…"

"Take us to the—"

"One…"

"B—"

"Impact!"

Trillian woke up, slowly, painfully, and with the unhappy thought that she must have been destined to spend most of her life waking up slowly and painfully. She could accept that it might happen once or twice in the course of life with Zaphod, but once or twice within the space of a single day seemed excessive, to say the least. She groaned and sat up. Ford lay next to her, clutching his head. He managed a wobbly smile by way of a greeting.

"Where the hell are we?" Trillian asked. Ford dragged himself to his knees, pulled the Guide from an inside pocket, and made a quick search.

"Well, according to the Guide's GPS function, we are currently directly in front of—"

A hitherto unnoticed door burst open, and, to the accompaniment of an eardrum-destroying blast of heavy metal music, a disembodied voice announced: "Welcome to Ultimata, the Big Bang Burger Bar!"


	5. The Big Bang Burger Bar

_Chapter 5 _

_The Big Bang Burger Bar _

Arthur woke up wishing he knew what he'd done to make the universe hate him like this. His head pounded. When he attempted to open his eyes he discovered that he was once again lying with his face pressed into the floor. The only thing he could find to be thankful about in the current situation was that at least it wasn't mauve. He slowly peeled himself up and into a sitting position, only to be hit in the mouth by the barrel of a laser pistol as Zaphod materialised virtually on top of him. "Watch where you're sitting, Monkeyman!" yelled Zaphod. Arthur was about to retort angrily when there was a loud clatter and Marvin appeared out of nowhere. There was an extremely confused moment of pain and metallic clanging and Arthur passed out again. When he came round, he discovered that he was in a long corridor. Marvin was slumped against a wall, counting dust particles. Zaphod sat opposite Arthur, twiddling his thumbs. "Oh, joy," he said. "The monkey wakes." Arthur sighed.

"Do you have any idea where we are?"

"If I did, do you think I would even be here? No, I'd be well on my way to the nearest source of alcohol. Remind me to destroy the computer when we get back to the ship."

"What happened?"

"The zarking teleport system screwed up again. Where's the guide?"

"Ford has it."

"Oh, _zark_."

Ford and Trillian sat at Ultimata's bar. Waves of sound crashed and thudded around them. Up on the stage, a group of hairy, vaguely humanoid figures were gyrating and growling. They held instruments that could only be described as a musician's worst nightmare. Trillian flicked listlessly through the Guide entries whilst Ford attempted to convince the bartender, a burly man with a face like a side of beef, that not having any money was absolutely no impediment whatsoever to buying a drink. The barkeeper merely pointed to the small sign over the bar that stated 'No money: no credit'. Ford looked at it for a few seconds before whipping the Guide out of Trillian's hands and turning to the article on the universe. _**Monetary units:**__ None _

_In fact there are three freely convertible currencies in the Galaxy, but none of them count… _

Ford grinned and pushed the Guide across the counter. Three minutes later he and Trillian were sitting in a dark corner of the bar paging through the Guide's advice on Ultimata and getting miserably drunk.

Arthur sat on the floor and watched as Zaphod stomped around kicking the walls. He was muttering something along the lines of "And zark the zarking bastardised sons of zarkers with their zarking…"

Arthur stopped listening again. Zaphod kicked Marvin and looked slightly happier. "Hey, Monkeyman," he said. "Want to go explore?"

"Don't call me Monkeyman," said Arthur sulkily.

Trillian finished her Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster and looked around for Ford before realising that he was under the table. She kicked him. "Ford," she said urgently. "There's something very important I need to tell you." Ford hauled himself back into his chair, knocked over the bottle by his elbow and thoughtfully held his glass under the stream of liquid. "Important?" he enquired slowly.

"Yes," confirmed Trillian. "Important." And she began to try and remember what the very important thing was. Then Ford's glass shattered in his hand and he suddenly sobered up. "Ah yes," said Trillian. "Those men want to kill us."

Arthur trudged along the corridor behind Zaphod. They had been walking for nearly half an hour and so far there had been no change in their surroundings. Arthur was beginning to wish that the flooring _was_ purple, simply to relieve the monotony. Then Zaphod stopped so suddenly that he kicked Marvin again. "What happened?" asked Arthur.

"Shut up!" hissed Zaphod. Arthur shut up, aggrieved. Marvin creaked gloomily from somewhere underneath Zaphod's foot. "Did you hear that?" asked Zaphod.

"What?" said Arthur.

"That!"

And Arthur heard it. Slow, heavy footsteps, coming along the corridor towards them. They ran.

Ford and Trillian weaved through the restaurant, heading towards the car park. "Do we have a plan?" yelled Trillian.

"We steal a ship and.. um… we steal a ship!" replied Ford, trying desperately to think of a plan.

If Arthur had been asked how he felt at that precise moment in time, his answer would probably have been concerned with how incredibly off-putting it is to be running for one's life whilst accompanied by Marvin. A stream of comments along the lines of 'Life, don't talk to me about life' and 'Seen one endless corridor, you've seen them all' really don't do much in the way of motivation.

Zaphod slammed into a wall. Arthur slammed into Zaphod. Marvin slammed into Arthur. "Why did you stop?" yelled Arthur. Behind them, a shadowy figure came into view. From what they could see of it, it was carrying a very large gun.

Ford and Trillian catapulted through the swing doors to the car park and stopped, stunned. "Sweet mother of…" murmured Ford. They were staring at a spaceship so massive that it put the _Heart of Gold_ to shame. Ford whistled slowly. "Let's steal it," he said.

Arthur backed up against the wall. "Please tell me you have a plan," he appealed. "Absolutely," replied Zaphod in a terrible tone of false cheerfulness. "After all, there's only one thing to do at a time like this."

"Thank God," said Arthur, sagging at the knees. "What?"

"Get Marvin to negotiate."


	6. Rhinoceroses and explanations

_Chapter 6_

_Rhinoceroses and explanations _

"What?" yelled Arthur. "Are you mad?" But it was too late. Zaphod had given Marvin another kick, and the unfortunate robot bounced away from them, landing at the feet of the armoured figure. Now it was close enough to be seen properly, it rather resembled a giant rhinoceros. A giant _green_ rhinoceros that stood upright on its hind legs and carried a rifle. It looked down confusedly when Marvin hit its leg, probably because its projecting chest armour prevented it from seeing anything that wasn't directly in line with its horn. Eventually it discovered that by crouching down it could see the small metal object that had bumped into it. "Hello, little robot," it rumbled. "Hello," replied Marvin in a monotone.

"What are you doing here?"

Marvin appeared to consider this. "Take me," he said finally, "to your leader". To everyone's surprise, the rhinoceros promptly stood up and marched off, indicating that Marvin should follow him. Arthur was so relieved that he practically cried.

Trillian glanced round nervously. Their pursuers would be through the doors to the car park at any moment, and there were, as yet, no signs of the miraculous lock-picking breakthrough that Ford had promised a few minutes ago. Trillian had been a little suspicious about this in the first place, considering that the gigantic orange spaceship didn't even appear to have a lock, but now she was frantic. "Ford!" she hissed. "What's taking so long?" Ford muttered something unprintable under his breath and turned back to her. "The zarking door won't open," he explained. "It has some kind of vocal locking system."

Trillian sighed, gave the ship a swift kick and screamed, "Just bloody well open up, you miserable excuse for a planet-hopper!" The door opened immediately. Ford blinked, shrugged and followed her inside.

Arthur and Zaphod crept quietly along the corridor after Marvin and the rhinoceros, pausing only for several fierce whispered arguments about who was treading on who's toes the most often. After a while, the rhinoceros arrived at a door. It signalled for Marvin to remain silent before knocking ponderously. The sound rebounded off the walls, echoing down the corridor until Arthur began to think that being dead might not be such a bad alternative. At least it would be quiet.

After an age, the door slid slowly open and a languorous, cultured voice drawled, "You may enter, Judan." The rhinoceros stomped forward, followed by Marvin, Zaphod and Arthur, both of whom were craning their necks to discover who the 'leader' of this mysterious place was. What they saw confounded their expectations entirely. A green-skinned man clothed in an expensive-looking dressing-gown lay on a couch at the far end of the room. He had a monocle in one eye. "Judan," he sighed as the rhinoceros entered, "must you knock like that? I have already explained the correct use of the intercom system _three times_…" His voice faded away as he caught sight of Marvin, Arthur and Zaphod. "Ah," he said delicately. "Thank you, Judan. You may leave. It would appear that my plans have fulfilled themselves without any further prompting on my part."

"Wonderful," groaned Ford, surveying the control panel. "What kind of idiot writes all the instructions in Venusian?"

"A Venusian?" suggested Trillian brightly. Ford gave her a look indicating that logic was the last thing he needed right now. She ignored it in favour of scrutinising the control panel carefully. "Well," she said, "if you just push this lever here and press the red button and then twist this weird sticky-out thingy, then it _should—_"

There was a sharp jerk, and Ford and Trillian suddenly found themselves pinned against the opposite wall by an excess of G-force. "… definitely _not_ do that," Trillian finished. Ford flailed wildly, trying to relieve the pressure crushing his lungs. He had just about succeeded when the ship braked sharply, and they were both sent flying back down towards the control panel.

Zaphod attempted to hide behind Arthur as the green-skinned man fixed his gaze on them. Arthur, in his turn, attempted to hide behind Marvin, who merely gave the room in general a look a blank contempt before switching himself off. After a little nervous shuffling, Zaphod suddenly remembered that he had a weapon. He stepped forward, brandishing it. "I am Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Galaxy!" he declared, non too confidently. "I demand that you tell us where we are immediately!" The man gave him a mildly pained look. "Very well," he drawled, after a moment's consideration, "I suppose you do deserve an explanation. I am—"

There was a sudden bang, rather like that of a small planet exploding.

"— bloody stupid place to put a teleport switch!" yelled Ford as he and Trillian burst out of nowhere and collapsed on the floor groaning. The green-skinned man raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Well, now that everyone's here," he said, "I trust I may proceed."


	7. The Question

_Chapter 7 _

_The Question_

"Proceed where?" asked Ford, getting up. "Oh, hi Zaphod; Arthur." The green-skinned man looked confused. "I'm not proceeding anywhere," he said.

"Well, how can you be proceeding, then?" asked Trillian, also getting up. The man gave her a look of deep dislike. "Anyway," he said.

"No, seriously," said Trillian, "don't you have to be moving to proceed?"

"_Anyway_," said the man, glaring so hard at her that his monocle fell out.

"I just ask," said Trillian, "because—"

"Do you want to die in an unnecessarily painful and bloody manner?!" screamed the man.

"Not particularly," said Trillian.

"Then be quiet and allow me to explain."

"Explain what?"

"What I would explain if you would all just shut up and allow me to get started!"

"Oh." Trillian thought about this for a bit. "Okay."

"Thank you. My name," began the green-skinned man, "is Zaklion Tragliole." He was cut off by a roar of laughter from Zaphod that was hastily turned into a coughing fit. "Is there," he asked, "something _amusing_ about my name?"

"Well, no, not really," said Zaphod, trying to breathe. "It's just that… well… _Zaklion Tragliole_? What did you ever do to piss your parents off like that?" Zaklion's expression darkened. Ford tugged Zaphod's sleeve. "He's a Naufrag," he hissed.

"How does that excuse him?"

"They don't _have_ parents," Ford said. "They reproduce by…" he broke off, looked dubiously at Arthur and Trillian, and whispered something in Zaphod's ear. "Really?" asked Zaphod. "That doesn't sound likely." Ford whispered something else. Zaphod paled. "_How _many legs?"

"Amusing as this undoubtedly is," said Zaklion, "may we get back to the point? And incidentally, you have little right to accuse me of having an odd name when you're called Zaphod Beeblebrox."

"What's wrong with Zaphod Beeblebrox?" asked Zaphod, instantly defensive.

"What's wrong with Zaklion Tragliole?"

"Well, for a start—" said Zaphod, displaying a lack of regard for irony that would have caused a Llaculian, a race known for their staggering bluntness, to bow down in awe. Ford hit him upside the head before he could cause a major galactic conflict.

"_Anyway_," said Zaklion, with great self-control, "_as I was saying_, now that you are all here, I may explain the purpose for which I have gathered you. Since, my earliest days, I have been engaged in a quest to discover the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything."

"Yeah, us too," muttered Trillian.

"After much deciphering of ancient texts, consulting the wisdom of the latest cyber-philosophers and drinking Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters on desert islands, I discovered the location of said Question, and accordingly, set out to capture it. I hired the Imarwanien Official Scout Force for this purpose, but sadly, you evaded them at every turn. I'd imagine that they have quite a vendetta against you by now. I'll admit that blowing up the Star Federation was a nice touch."

"See!" said Zaphod. "He managed to find the question by getting drunk somewhere sunny! Why couldn't _we_ have done that?"

"Ssh!" hissed everyone else.

"The Question," announced Zaklion impressively, "is _there_."

There was a short, shocked silence. Then Ford spoke. "No, no, no," he said reassuringly, "that's _Zaphod Beeblebrox_. I'll admit it's an easy mistake to make if you're not too clear about the precise nature of the Question and have, perhaps, had one too many Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters, but—"

"Not _him_, you fool!" interrupted Zaklion. "In his pocket!"

Very slowly, Zaphod reached into his pocket and pulled out the laser pistol from the Imarwanien ship.

"It so happens," explained Zaklion, "that the particular quantum wavelengths encoding the Question resolve every fifteen thousand millennia, and that they are always encoded to a specific individual. The individual this time just happened to be your monkey." He pointed at Arthur, who began to protest loudly.

"But," objected Trillian, who had been listening carefully, "if these wavelengths are encoded to Arthur, why did the gun – I mean, the Question – turn up in Zaphod's pocket?"

"Most likely because manifesting in the ape's pocket would be considerably detrimental to its continued wellbeing?" said Zaklion, regarding Arthur's much-bespattered dressing gown unfavourably. Arthur's dressing gown was a law unto itself, an entity so grimy and coated with the effluvia of several different galaxies and centuries that it had practically become sentient. Zaklion eyed it warily. It eyed him back, considering whether or not it would help the situation to eat him. Eventually it decided against it and merely emitted a low growl before settling back down for a short nap. This was a dressing gown with _priorities_.

While Arthur was busy being indignant, Ford, Trillian and Zaphod examined the laser pistol. There wasn't a lot to examine. A perfectly standard barrel, a perfectly standard trigger, a mildly sub-standard nuclear fission compression chamber. It certainly didn't look like the Ultimate Question. "So," asked Ford, voicing everyone's doubts, "if this is the manifestation of the Question, how do we get the Question itself out?"

There followed a selection of interesting ideas, ranging from the logical (just fire it) to the Zaphod (set Marvin on Zaklion and run for it while he's occupied, commandeer the nearest ship and travel to Kelphagus Minor under assumed names, whereupon we sell the gun to the highest bidder and get very, very drunk on the proceeds). The only real objection to this last plan was that the merchants of Kelphagus Minor, none of whom were born yesterday, would dismiss out of hand such truthful and plausible claims as a couple of miscreants, one of whom happens to be the President of the Galaxy, having the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything. Which was very disobliging of them, but such is life. In fact, they had just about decided to try making a run for it, using Marvin as cover, when there was a polite 'a-hem' sound from behind them. They looked up. They were surrounded by Zaklion's rhinoceros guards, and Zaklion himself was pointing an extremely large and dangerous-looking laser blaster at them. It had a slight resemblance to Zaphod's pistol, but only in the way that the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal resembles an average cockroach.

"Hand over the Question," said Zaklion, "and no-one gets hurt."


End file.
